


The Genetic Inheritance affair, 1: A search for perfection

by Hypatia_66



Series: The Genetic Inheritance Affair [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Original Character(s), THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 07:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13806414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Genetic manipulation is a pipe-dream, but Thrush aims to create a race of supermen from suitable candidates. Dr Dabree plans vengeance.





	The Genetic Inheritance affair, 1: A search for perfection

**Author's Note:**

> LJ Short Affair challenge 26 February (Prompts: retire, gold)  
> Tbc

**A Search for Perfection**

“We shall select perfect specimens of both sexes for producing the next generation, and we plan to select other specimens for immediate improvement.”

The door opened and a short plump woman with frizzy hair and gold-rimmed, thick-lensed spectacles bustled in.

“Ah. You come most carefully upon your hour, Dr Dabree.”

She smiled sweetly. “You do realise, of course, that Hamlet meant ‘you made me jump’.” She evidently anticipated no response to this dubious statement and received none – unless some shifting in seats and faint clearing of throats could be construed as such.

“Dr Dabree, I was just explaining the plans for genetic selection.”

“Ah yes. I have been going through the records. Of course, genetic manipulation is still in its infancy …“ Here she paused as if waiting for someone to chuckle at her word play. No-one had noticed it so she continued, “… but with judicious selection of likely candidates, I think we might utilise the normal procedure for conception, however distasteful.”

That did get a reaction.

The chairman broke into the stifled snorts and said coolly, “And the plans for improvement of existing candidates?”

“Well, this is a procedure also not yet fully developed, but we shall select volunteers…” and here she gave a little giggle at the contradiction. Observing a faint quiver among the brethren present, she was satisfied and went on, “I have been making a list of potential candidates for improvement, as well as those whose genetic inheritance can be utilised.” She giggled again and added, “not necessarily from among our own members.” It was an opportunity to make a certain UNCLE agent and his Russian partner pay their pound of flesh, but she didn't tell them that.

oo000oo

Mr Waverly read the communiqué and frowned. Such a monstrous idea surely had its place only in science fiction, or on the wilder shores of the thriller genre.

He called his two top agents to his office, and, watching them enter, it occurred to him that UNCLE might also … no, no, Alexander, get a grip!

The two men sat down and he spun the table towards Napoleon. “Read that, Mr Solo,” he said. “Mr Kuryakin, a copy for you,” and he sent another file round the table.

Illya was the first to comment. “This is a nonsense,” he said. “Selection for perfection ignores the principle of the Regression to the Mean.”

Waverly smiled. “Indeed.”

Napoleon looked up. “Two rights don’t make a better right?”

“Something like that, though they might at a first attempt. Statistically it’s likely to produce something closer to an average rather than something of higher value.”

“So how are pedigree animals bred?”

“With a high incidence of failure. There is a problem with inbreeding.”

Mr Waverly interrupted. “Gentlemen, whatever the prospects of success, nevertheless, Thrush is looking for perfect specimens to make use of, or to improve.”

Illya, observing an unreadable expression on his face, looked questioningly at his chief. “What … exactly, are you expecting us to do?” he said.

“It’s not what _I’m_ expecting, it’s what Thrush might be planning for you – this came in just before you arrived.”

This time Waverly handed the sheet to Illya who read it and went white. He passed it on to Napoleon and walked to the window. Napoleon’s hearty chuckle was quickly suppressed, but the differences between their responses entertained their chief more than somewhat.

oo000oo

“That tailor’s shop seems to be the enforcement agents’ entrance but there’s no pattern to their coming and goings – we don’t know when to expect them. They haven’t been near the place for a while.”

“They’re probably on an operation. Keep someone there, watching. And put someone on the other side of the block in case they’re using a different entrance.”

The two UNCLE agents were not only using a different entrance, they were regularly in disguise. The blonde moustache did nothing for Illya’s looks, and the tweed hat and glasses made him look weedy. On the other hand, the Louis-Napoleon beard on his namesake’s chin, and the grey curls in his hair, while it did a lot for _his_ good looks, gave him the appearance of an elderly visiting statesman.

“I think that’s them,” said one of the watchers to his partner.

“How can you tell?”

“Gait – the shorter one has a catch in his walk. The other one walks like an athlete. It’s them. Let’s go.”

oo000oo

They were held in different cells – very comfortably appointed cells, to be sure, but cells, nevertheless. The bed was large; the shower contained expensive unguents and soft towels; there were magazines to read, of distinctly questionable character – at least as far as Illya was concerned. Napoleon flicked through his more readily, but wasn’t impressed.

Each received a visitor who explained in fairly graphic terms what was required and issued threats about alternative methods of achieving their goal.

“Since we’re being so honest,” said Napoleon, “I’d like to be assured of the health and purity of the lady involved... What d’you mean _ladies_?”

“Since we’re being so honest,” said Illya, in his turn, “you realise that we have both been exposed to radiation, which might skew your plans somewhat. Teratogenic effects, infertility, that kind of thing. And there is insanity in my family, of course.”

The uninterested response to both was the same: put up and shut up, or endure a more mechanised form of extraction.

“Can I decide when I see what’s on offer?” was more or less what each then asked.

“Trust me, you’ll prefer the natural method,” was the reply.

oo000oo

“So, how was it for you?” said Napoleon after their release – they hadn’t expected to get out alive and were feeling a mixture of relief, confusion and mortification.

“I think it might be time to retire,” Illya said, wearily.

“Nothing like going out with a bang.”

A disgusted glare met this facetious remark. “Have you no sense of personal dignity?”

“Not much at the moment.”

A pause … a long pause.

“What do we tell Mr Waverly? … What if…?”

“You tell me.”

“It can’t be left like this… ah, Bozhe moi…”

“Yes. Praying might work.”

**ooo0000ooo**


End file.
